The Race
The race itself is straightforward enough - teams of 3 sailors and 2 fell runners compete over a number of stages of sailing and running - with all runs except the prologue at Oban being on Scottish Islands.
There are some permutations such as youth courses, all-rounder class and yacht classes but the basic recipe of run/sail is the same.
The race has fairly lofty ambitions of generating mutual respect between sailors and fell runners. Presumably before the race was formed there were bar brawls as rival gangs of fell runners and sailors clashed over who had the greater tales of daring do???The Yacht - Marisca
Our boat was a 32 foot Contessa called Marisca, owned by skipper Alastair Pugh. It was all that would be between us and Davy Jones' Locker. Would it be enough...
The Team
Joining Alastair was sailor and runner Chris Oliver, late substitute sailor Debbie MacDonald (who is really a runner) and runners Olly Stephenson and me, James Jarvis. All but Olly had some prior experience of the race.
(See Olly's Blog).
Involvement was never really intended when fellow Hunters Bog Trotters Chris and Debbie first approached me. Initially they were fended off but my resolve was never going to last. Having been press-ganged into it, a fellow masochist for the running sections was required. Best to choose someone who had not done it before - ignorance of the task in hand being a bonus. Olly came to mind as, ever since (unintentionally) leading my youngest son on a E4 grade climb in a cordoned off part of the Jelly Club at a children's party, he was considered to be the "right stuff". The only reservation being his membership of Carnethy.
The first meetings in the Blue Blazer of the crew went well the sailors were to be Alastair (skipper), Chris and Angus. The back-of-a-beer mat logistics checked out: Alastair had a boat; we had sailors; and we had runners. Such attention to detail being the hallmark of a proper Trotter escapade.
Race Start at Oban
The Friday noon start run at Oban is an odd sort of procession as everyone wants to do well but is also aware that there is lots of running to follow. One of the school teams hared off. The Symonds brothers were soon in the lead though closely followed by fellow Trotters Don Naylor and Ray Ward. Olly and I set off at a reasonable pace and we probably finished in the top third. After paddling to Marisca in the dinghy however it quickly became apparent that I had left a a kit bag ashore. Retrieving that added about 5 minutes to our sailing out of Oban and introduced Olly to Trotter standards of organisation.
Sail to Salen
Confession time - during the sailing legs staying below to rest is my ploy.
Not too sure of the detail of the sail to Salen as a result. The one peek out seemed to indicate a lot of boats in front... Very shortly we were disembarking at Salen for the 22 mile run up Ben More.
Mull Run
The Mull run went smoothly. A brief stop was made to check a team of 3 were ok - one of their number had sprained his ankle. After they assured us they were ok we continued. We managed to miss the majority of the scree on A Chioch by traversing low down. (Some teams had gone too high and were slowly picking their way through the boulders higher up.) The final scramble to the summit of Ben More was brisk as was the breeze but not quite as bad as 2 years ago when the race was abandoned.
On the descent the Adventure Show crew, who had impressively lugged their cameras up to the high pass between A Chioch and Beinn Fhada, stopped us to ask us a few questions. On the descent into Glen Clachaig we passed in a short section three dead sheep which seemed odd. We were still chasing runners ahead and passing them. The last 5 miles of the Mull run were on road and by this stage fatigue was setting in however we were still catching teams and so we pressed on.
We finished in under 5 hours which was at over half-an-hour faster than planned. We had managed to pass about fourteen teams. Chris had only arrived in the dinghy two minutes earlier this was a really lucky break - we really appreciated his being there!
Sail to Craighouse
Boarding Marisca we were presented by Debbie with a lovely lasagne which we promptly devoured and then crawled into our sleeping bags. Again, recollection of the sail is sketchy as I was trying to sleep. There was a lot of shouting and one particular incident regarding a big white light ahead caused Olly and me alarm. We both were well aware of the now legendary incident in which our club mates, Jamie Thin and Phil Mowbray, had been aboard a boat that crashed into a lighthouse! The urge to shout "Keep away from the light!" was resisted.
Jura Run
Sometime on Saturday we arrived at Jura. The run over the Paps is tough. Fridays blisters had to be nursed into comfortable configurations with the aid of plasters and compeed. Even so feet were very sore.
We took the more direct approach through Keils which required the least loss of height. It is however rougher so walking seemed reasonable. Despite this steady progress was made towards the first Pap. Our navigation was good. A team on our tail must have been all-rounders as there were three of them. It was obvious that the runner at the front wanted to catch us but that the one at the back was not going to. We sensibly kept our pace steady and before long they drifted from sight. We had now climbed about 400 metres and we were finally at the base of the first of three Paps.
By this stage I was tiring faster than Olly and he was carrying my pack to even up our pace. Asking Olly to be my running partner was turning out to be a very good call...
The climb up the first Pap is brutal in blustery the wind. It always seems windier on Beinn a Chaolas than the other Paps and as we reached the summit it was unsurprisingly shrouded in swirling mist. The descent off was hairy-scary - we knew it would be. A couple of slips resulted in cut hands on the sharp scree.
Near the lochan between Beinn a Chaolas and Beinn an Oir we were again impressed to see a camera crew - top marks for them for getting there. When asked was it tough I replied yes, but not as bad as being on the boat! The sailors have it tougher.
On the second Pap, Beinn an Oir, the cloud cleared to give us some stunning views, not least of the precipitous descent off that first Pap. We chatted to another team briefly before they forged ahead.
The third Pap, Ben Shiantaidh, is the easiest climb but the scree descent off it is like crossing a minefield on a 60 degree slope. One wrong footing and the whole lot goes... There are some decent runs of small scree but whatever route one takes involves crossing some unstable boulder fields.
Once off the final Pap and across the outflow of the loch, we had a gradual descent along a boggy path - sinking to above our knees at times - as we headed to the coast road. The team we had chatted to earlier was now barely in sight. We kept our own pace, knowing that the 4 km road section was still ahead of us.
Four kilometres might not seem much but after 6000 feet of ascent in about 12 miles and the previous days marathon distance up a Munro, 4k is 4k too much. By Craighouse one runner was completely shattered - and it was not Olly!
Sail Arran (via Despair, Exhaustion and Divine Intervention)
The sail to Arran was rough right from the offset. Too weary and scared of seasickness to eat I lay down immediately. My berth was a double so with every tack I was thrown one way and then the other. The lee cloth was not sufficiently taut that I ended up slipping between it. I tried to sleep through it but found my body tensing to stop being thrown - my hands grasping for anything to stay in one place. Meanwhile, up on deck the sailors were fighting to keep the boat going.After 24 hours without food and most of that without drink, Dr Chris and Nurse Olly handed me an isotonic drink and insisted I sip it. I had been seasick but with nothing in my stomach the result was in Alastair's words "A bad king of sick". Feelings of uselessness and despair at letting the others down were nagging away at me.
All the while I was in the seasickness despair down below, on deck things must have been far, far worse. With a gail force 8 wind and waves of greater than 20 feet engulfing our 32 foot yacht it was tough.
At some point a rope had caught in the forward hatch and water had poured in on Debbie and her kit and on all my clothes too. Even the kit in plastic bags was soaked. Everything was soaked.
The sailors spent hours tacking and fighting the tides only to find the lighthouse on the Mull of Kintyre would loom back in to view in true Groundhog Day style. With everyone exhausted, me wretchedly seasick, dehydrated and bringing up only bile, it was decided to call it a day and head back the way we had come to Machrahanish and safe haven.
Perhaps it is Divine Intervention, perhaps some things are just meant to be. But we were not meant to retire. After motoring back the way for 15 minutes the engine overheated and cut out. It was clear that as the tides were now turning we had no choice but to sail on either to Arran or Northern Ireland. The logistics of getting home from Antrim were not worth contemplating. So we headed on for Arran, slowly.
It was after 9pm on Sunday when we arrived at Arran. The plan was to take Olly and Chris across in the dinghy to do the leg then ship me ashore to recover. I was not to do the leg and I did not have enough fight in me to argue. However when Alastair returned he said "We're in 10th place overall, you're staying!".
Arran Run
Alastair now set about fixing the engine before grabbing some rest. After a while he was satisfied it was all working and he began to relax.
By now, sitting in the shelter of Lamlash Bay, I was feeling better and had even eaten a healthy portion of Debbie's ratatouille. Wanting to make small amends, I rowed the dinghy ashore for water whilst Alastair snatched some well earned sleep. I then headed back ashore to sit and wait for Olly and Chris to finish their night run up Goat Fell.
I sat with the marshals in the tent, my conversation adding to their boredom! After my seasickness the tent seemed like a five star hotel - it did not rock and bounce. Life seemed rosy again.
Neither Chris nor Olly had done the Arran leg before. They were now running the leg in the dark. And it was very dark and very wet and very windy. Up at the summit it would be very bleak and exposed.
They completed just before dawn in about 6 hours. A truly remarkable effort. Chris then even managed to row back to the boat - he was still a faster oarsman than me even after an Arran leg.
As he rowed there was confusion as another dinghy was also leaving and two yachts were milling about in the dark trying to pick up their runners. Finally a call that could only be Debbie signalled our mothership was close. Chris by now was so exhausted Olly had to bundle him aboard.
Sail to Troon
Chris still had to help Alastair to get the sails sorted but as they were being raised something nautical broke or fell away. There followed a tense 10 minutes of Alastair trying to find the correct spare doobury-furtle in the various stowage places aboard. Meanwhile, exhausted Chris was upon deck awaiting orders to put up the sails in the cold wind. Alastair may have looked all night had Olly not alerted him to the fact we were drifting into shallow water...
The doobury-furtle thing now became unimportant - we were going to sail to Troon without it. With the search over and whatever workarounds in place, Chris and Olly could finally retire to their bunks for a well earned. They were asleep almost immediately.
Debbie too was shattered and shortly went to the forehead bunk to curl up in her still soaking sleeping bag. It must have been truly miserable but she never complained.
Now Alastair was left to sail the boat alone with just my sailing ignorance to call upon. After all the heavy seas the mood changed to one of dull exhaustion. It was raining heavily and cold on deck in the predawn light. The SE wind we were using was dying and Alastair.s eyes were barely open. I fed him chocolate and helped with the ropes on each tack. He was amazingly patient with me given all he had been through.
At some point the lee cloth on the berth where Chris slept came loose. Although it was not rough there was still a danger that a tack could leave him in the gangway. Some quick adjustments and he was safe once again.
At some point Alastair said "We could just motor this last bit to Troon". Maybe he was testing my stomach for carrying on. Maybe he needed a second opinion. I am not sure what my words were but the motor stayed off.
Shortly after we were becalmed. Alastair handed me an oar and asked me to start rowing. This was a great relief for two reasons: firstly it meant we were still racing; and secondly because the effort would keep me warm! With short oars and no rollocks a Canadian canoe technique of yacht propulsion seemed appropriate. After ten minutes of rowing, slowly, magically, a wind rose from a new direction: South.
Troon was in sight. The light but steady southerly wind was in our favour. Alastair called for his crew on deck and the spinnaker was hoisted. It was to be a glorious final approach. What boldness! What style! How the cameras would love it! Unfortunately there were no cameras - it was too early for anyone else to view the spectacle and for safety the spinnaker had be taken in before entering the harbour.
Troon
Olly and I were then given the honour of rowing into the inner marina and running the last two hundred metres to the Troon Marina Office.
The marshals were very welcoming - perhaps surprised to see anyone finish this late! We were more bemused than elated to hear Marisca was the first class 3 yacht. It seemed ironic after all that had happened including our failed attempt to drop out!
The finish is such a contrast to the bustle of the start. Finishing is so much more relief than elation. No trumpet fanfares or television crews. Just tired sailors and marshals in the dreich Troon Monday morning.
This year's race was different. Far tougher, and tougher in a way that the Adventure Show cameras can never capture. Yet we had finished. Debbie, Olly and I bade fairwell to Alastair and Chris. We headed for the train station and a return to the real world. It felt odd. It felt that something had changed. And it felt it was meant to be.
